


ghosting

by spacemancharisma



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional self harm, Hurt/Comfort, I can't stand unhappy endings so never worry about that from me lol, Jon attempts to push Martin away because he feels guilty, M/M, Panic Attack, Suicidal Ideation, and Martin "Comforting People Is My First Language" Blackwood says none of that in my house, in which Jon fully has a breakdown over starting the apocalypse, it gets pretty angsty before the comfort though, post-160, so trigger warnings for:, so yeah it's rough at first and there's a good old fashioned emotional breakdown but it gets better, they're already together in this so there's that context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemancharisma/pseuds/spacemancharisma
Summary: There wasn’t even a spare bedroom he could shut himself up in, and when Martin closed all the curtains and did everything he could to act like nothing had changed, like Jon hadn’t finally become every terrible thing he had always been afraid of, like he wasn’t bringing a glass of water to the monster that had just ended the world, all he could think to do was to curl up as small and out of the way as possible, wrap his arms around himself, and refuse to make eye contact or speak. He knew he was hiding himself about as well as an infant who covered his eyes and believed that he couldn’t be seen, but he didn’t know what else to do.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 245





	ghosting

The thing about Daisy’s safehouse was that there really wasn’t anywhere to hide. 

There were barely four rooms all counted, and nowhere that Jon could lock himself inside and wait to waste away, even though it was the only thing he had wanted since the Watcher’s Crown. From the moment he had awoken after falling unconscious for over twelve hours, the only thing he could think about was how he could get himself away from Martin, how he could throw himself back into the Buried and wait for everything to be over. 

But there wasn’t even a spare bedroom he could shut himself up in, and when Martin closed all the curtains and did everything he could to act like nothing had changed, like Jon hadn’t finally become every terrible thing he had always been afraid of, like he wasn’t bringing a glass of water to the monster that had just ended the world, all he could think to do was to curl up as small and out of the way as possible, wrap his arms around himself, and refuse to make eye contact or speak. He knew he was hiding himself about as well as an infant who covered his eyes and believed that he couldn’t be seen, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

What the hell was the right thing to do?

He couldn’t kill himself, actually  _ couldn’t _ (he couldn’t even cut off a damn finger), and he couldn’t ask Martin to do it for him (he knew it would never work and only further traumatize Martin, which seemed needlessly cruel). He would wander into the hellscape outside the house and hope for the worst, but he was afraid that Martin would try to follow him, and beyond that, he knew that the Eye wouldn’t let him die. Not at this point.

So what was he to do? The only way he could conceive of both punishing himself and protecting Martin was to wall himself off so completely that Martin eventually gave up on trying to get through, and moved on with his life, leaving Jon to rot into one more stain on the slatted wood floors. It was easy, too, to sink into himself, lose himself in an overwhelmingly dark place swimming with other people’s fear, and forget that anything else existed. Just sink his body into the cold wood of the walls and floor and float in an endless pool of misery, accompanied by the faintest glimmer of satisfaction because this was  _ exactly what he deserved _ .

The problem was that Martin didn’t give up so easily. 

Sure, he was able to read cues well enough, and he wasn’t so dull as to not discern why Jon was behaving strangely, it wasn’t like he had missed the whole bringing-about-the-end-of-times thing, but he still brought food and water to the corner where Jon had pressed himself so tightly and nagged him to eat and drink until he did, eyes unfocused. He still sat a few feet away and talked to him, even when Jon didn’t respond. He read aloud and told childhood stories and anecdotes from the earlier years in the archives. He didn’t push or ask anything of Jon; he was well familiar with the hollow look in his eyes, and he didn’t need the Beholding to hear how loudly Jon was thinking about how terribly he hated himself. At night, he would spend the better part of an hour attempting to coax Jon into bed, and when Jon continued to stare through the wall, unmoving and lost in some distant landscape of horror, he very gently draped a blanket over his lap and pretended not to notice how all of Jon’s muscles flinched at the sudden slight change in pressure. Then he slept on the couch where he could keep an eye on him, and woke to Jon still attempting to dissolve through the floor. 

On the third day of this pattern, Martin couldn’t stand it anymore. He knew what he was watching, he knew that this was Jon’s best attempt at something like diet suicide, and he had given him time and given him space but it was becoming increasingly clear that Jon wasn’t exactly planning on working through some things and then getting on with his life. Martin realized that Jon had receded fully into somewhere far out of mind and body and planned on staying exactly where he was, exactly as he was, until something moved him. And that just wasn’t going to work.

“Jon,” he said softly at first, sitting down a small ways across from him. “Jon... Look at me, Junebug,” Martin smiled faintly at the pet name as he said it, but Jon was unresponsive.

“Jonathan,” Martin took a tone he wasn’t used to, something almost stern in how resolute it was. He raised his volume only slightly as he called his name again, but Jon still stared straight through him.

Martin hadn’t touched Jon since he had entered his dissociation, and part of him felt awful that he knew he wouldn’t be able to properly ask, but he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t want to scare Jon, he certainly didn’t want to hurt him, and he was running out of options.

“Jon, I’m going to touch you on your shoulder now. I’m sorry if I startle you, I really am, but I need you to wake up.”

True to his word, Martin reached out a hand and ever so gently laid it on the edge of one sharp shoulder. 

It went about as well as Martin had expected.

Jon screamed at the sudden contact and his eyes snapped into clarity as he threw his body backwards and only succeeded in jamming himself tighter against the wall. Martin yanked back his hand like Jon’s skin had been on fire and immediately began pouring out apologies. 

Jon’s eyes darted around the room with a feral desperation and his breath came far too quickly as he tried to take in his surroundings. His gaze landed on Martin’s face and he began to study him in earnest, still looking like nothing so much as a cornered prey animal, but slowly gaining coherency. 

He opened his mouth to speak but what choked forth was too grating and broken to even be called a cough. Martin tripped over himself to hand Jon a glass of water, which he took with hands that trembled so badly it was a shock that he didn’t spill the water entirely.

He took a second attempt at it and rasped out, “Martin?”

Martin nodded frantically but kept his hands tight at his sides. “Yes, yes Jon, it’s me, I’m here, you’re okay, I’m here.”

Jon looked baffled by the revelation and Martin didn’t have time to process that before Jon coughed out, “ _ Why? _ ”

It was Martin’s turn to gape for a moment before his voice came out, confused and so very soft, “Wh… What do you mean, ‘why’?”

Jon blinked a few times and one of his hands fluttered anxiously before he stammered, “I- I need…” and then he started to attempt to stand. 

He cried out as his joints unbent for the first time in days, and Martin barely managed to catch him before he collapsed entirely. By the time Martin had settled them both on opposite ends of the couch (wanting to respect that Jon clearly didn’t seem thrilled to be touched, as hard as it was to keep from bundling him up in his arms and never letting go again), Jon had tears in his eyes that he blinked away as he rubbed at his knees. 

After a moment of sitting and breathing together, Jon seemed to settle slightly and his brow furrowed as he remembered Martin’s last question. He clutched at his own arms, fingernails digging into the scars on his biceps through his sweater. 

“I mean… Why do you stay with me?” His eyes fluttered across Martin’s face, his eyebrows drawing up and desperate, his voice growing frantic. “It’s… I’m a monster as much as Eli- Jonah, as Peter or the Hunters, or all the rest of them. You should have left when everything went so wrong, you should have gotten away while you still could. God, you should have killed me when I was asleep, or when I was... gone. It’s not safe here for you, you’re not safe with me, I- I just don’t understand, why don’t you leave?”

Martin held his gaze and spoke without wavering. “Because I love you.”

Jon choked on a dry sob and clung to himself tighter. “D- ... Don’t.”

Martin gave the smallest, saddest smile. “Oh, Junebug, it’s too late and you know that,” He ran a hand down Jon’s jaw and Jon blinked hard and then collapsed into the touch. “I already do.”

Jon’s face crumpled up all at once, and then the tears started to fall. Suddenly his whole body was heaving with the sobs he had pushed back since the ritual, all of the misery, guilt, and self-hate he had been drowning in spilling out in jagged, gasping breaths and hot tears coming so fast they were blinding. His hands scrabbled at the sleeves of his sweater, frantic for purchase, until he felt the large, soft shape of Martin’s hands slowly slide around his. Jon went still at his touch, and allowed Martin to fold him up in his arms. 

Jon was wailing as he broke down, and Martin eased him into his lap, arms wrapped fully around his unbearably slight frame. He buried his face in Jon’s hair and murmured soothing nonsense into the crook of his neck. Jon shook all over and Martin had to hold his hands crossed over his chest to keep him from tearing at his face and hair. 

It was a long while before Jon’s sobbing had run out of steam enough for him to catch his breath, but as soon as he did he was gasping  _ “I’m sorry” _ s into Martin’s chest in an unending stream, choking and spluttering on the words when the tears were too much. Martin held him steady and continued to shush and mumble to him like to a wounded and frightened animal, every now and then pressing a small kiss to the top of his head. 

Eventually he found his voice more solidly beneath him and began to stumble on the words, “I’m sorry, Martin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to, I didn’t want it to happen, I couldn’t stop it, I wasn’t strong enough and now you’re in danger, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m a monster and you’re not safe because of me and I’ve ruined everything, the world is ending and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh god, I’m sorry-”

“Jon, Jon,” Martin whispered his name like a prayer. “It’s okay, love, it’s not your fault, it’s okay, you couldn’t help it, it’s not your fault, I forgive you, I love you, it’s okay.”

Jon let out a long, high whine as he sank even more bonelessly into Martin’s arms, finally allowing his own to come up and wrap around Martin’s waist. Martin continued to slide his hands up and down Jon’s sharply angled spine and through his hair, breathing “ _ I love you _ ”s into his skin like fresh air. 

They held each other until Martin saw what remained of the sun go down through the curtains, and then he noticed that Jon’s face had gone slack where it was burrowed in his neck, and that his breathing was long and slow. He would have said a prayer of gratitude if there was anything left to pray to, but as it was, he scooped Jon up in his arms like something fragile, a sharpness pulling in his chest just like every time he was forced to acknowledge how incredibly small and light and breakable Jon was. Jon hummed a small noise as he was jostled, but he settled easily back into deep sleep as Martin left a slow kiss on his forehead and eased him down into the bed.

Martin turned out the light and curled around Jon, keeping him safe,  _ finally _ , tucked against Martin’s chest and surrounded on all sides by his arms and legs. Another faint sound escaped Jon as Martin settled around him, but this time it was something content and secure. Martin sighed deeply as sleep made his head fuzzy and his limbs heavy, and the world didn’t stop ending all of a sudden, but at least for the moment, things didn’t seem quite so hopeless.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post from tumblr user @ hoofpeet that included Martin calling Jon "Junebug" as a nickname and I have been screaming about that since, so that's where that little detail came from


End file.
